


Side Stories (We Can Do This Until We Pass Out)

by delires



Series: Chav!verse [6]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Barebacking, Fisting, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delires/pseuds/delires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of ficlets set in Chav!verse, written to fit alongside the main story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tweety Pie

**Author's Note:**

> It is necessary to have read 'We Can Do This Until We Pass Out' for these stories to make sense.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames has an interesting tattoo. Written for Bina's Ass Fest.

Arthur picks his exhausted body up off of Eames’s and slumps back against the pillows, feeling troubled.

He had thought it impossible for him to be even more horrified than he already was by Eames.

Clearly, this was a foolish assumption.

Next to Arthur, Eames crashes down face-first. He groans loudly and lets one of his arms hang over the side of the bed. Arthur can hear the slurping sound of Jay-Z licking Eames’s dangling fingers.

“That was sick, man,” Eames mutters into the pillows. Arthur presses his lips together. He had personally been far too distracted to properly enjoy the fucking.

“I have a question,” Arthur says. Eames sighs and turns his head to one side, so that he can peer at Arthur through half-closed eyes.

“I’m not ready to go again yet. Give me a chance.”

“It’s about the tattoo,” Arthur says. Eames just blinks at him.

“Which one?”

“ _The one_. Right on your ass,” Arthur says. When this does not have the desired effect, he adds, “It’s _Tweety Pie_.”

“So what?”

“No. Eames. No. That’s not a cultural difference. It’s not a class difference. That’s just terrible fucking taste.”

Eames smiles at that, one of his crooked teeth sliding over his bottom lip. He presses his face into the pillows and rolls over, heaving himself up so that he is looming above Arthur on the bed.

“People do shit when they’re young, innit,” Eames says. He bends to press kisses against Arthur’s cheekbones, his chin, the corners of his eyes. Arthur ignores this. He is still half-blinded by the image of Tweety Pie, which is burned onto the backs of his retinas.

“I was young. I never did shit like that.”

“Your youth must’ve been bare long, blud.”

“You don’t know anything about my youth.” Eames’s kisses trail downwards, along Arthur’s throat and chest. Arthur’s fingers hover over the sweaty hair on Eames’s head, not quite touching. “I spent my youth doing better things than getting tacky cartoon characters tattooed all over me.”

Eames slaps the side of Arthur’s thigh. “Turn over,” he says.

Arthur does so, reaching an arm out to pick up his phone from the nightstand. The time display reads 08:04. Work can wait a little longer. Arthur props himself up on his elbows, so that he can scroll through his inbox.

There is a scrape of teeth against the skin at the small of Arthur’s back, and the drag of palms across the backs of his thighs. When Eames plants a kiss at Arthur’s tail bone and then flicks his tongue into the crack of Arthur’s ass, Arthur feels his cock twitch back to life against the sheets.

“Eames,” Arthur growls.

“Hang on.” The mattress creaks and then Eames’s weight is gone.

Arthur puts his phone back on the nightstand and rests his chin on his folded arms. Jay-Z has waddled around to Arthur’s side of the bed and is staring up at him.

“What are you looking at?” Arthur asks. Jay-Z puts his head on one side and keeps panting.

When Eames returns and slides his hands beneath Arthur’s hips, urging them upwards, Arthur raises himself willingly to his knees, biting his bottom lip in anticipation.

The sensation is not quite what Arthur is expecting.

“Eames,” Arthur says after a moment. “Are you drawing on me?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s been done. Change the record.”

“You’ll like this. Swear down. You’ll think it’s jokes.”

“When have I ever thought that anything you did was funny?” Arthur says. The tickle of pen strokes against his ass stops and then Eames is crawling forwards. He reaches beneath Arthur to curl his fingers around Arthur’s cock, his grip loose and teasing, and Arthur can’t help but press into the touch.

“If you don’t like the look of it,” Eames says, his breath hot and damp along Arthur’s cheek, “Then I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t even remember it’s there.”

Arthur turns his head, spine curving, so that his lips just brush against Eames’s when he says, “And if I do like it?”

“I’ll still fuck you. To make sure you don’t forget.”

“That’s a shit line.”

“Sit tight,” Eames says and moves away again, back down to Arthur’s ass, smoothing his hands over the muscle. Arthur drops his face onto his forearms, which are braced against the mattress, and resigns himself to waiting out Eames’s graffiti impulse.

“Where did you even get a pen? I thought you were getting lube,” Arthur says.

“There’s pens everywhere. We can’t fuckin’ move for pens in here.”

Arthur opens his mouth to contradict this ridiculous statement, but realises that it is not exactly inaccurate. Eames does have a lot of pens. Besides, Arthur is distracted by a sudden intrusion.

“That had better be a finger, and not a pen,” Arthur says.

“It’s anything you want it to be, pengting,” Eames says. Arthur can hear the grin in his voice. He twists his finger inside of Arthur, and Arthur has to grit his teeth, and bite down on a moan.

“We have already discussed the issue of your foreplay getting totally long.”

“I’m nearly done,” Eames says.

Sure enough, Arthur hears the click of a pen cap moments later, and then feels the slick press of lubed fingers (definitely fingers), sliding inside of him. Arthur shoves his hips backwards, needing more.

Eames ducks his head to bite the graffiti-free cheek of Arthur’s ass, chasing the teeth with the wet drag of his tongue. Then he is pulling his fingers free and finally replacing them with his cock. His fingers dig hard into Arthur’s hips as he shoves forwards. Eames is never gentle, but Arthur likes that. He grips the bed frame with one hand so that he has the leverage to push back against Eames. The metal clangs against the wall with every thrust.

Somewhere outside of the bedroom, Jay-Z begins to howl.

When Arthur comes, eyes squeezed shut, he wishes that it could be to the image of anything other than Tweety Pie tattooed on the firm swell of Eames’s ass.

“Give me your phone,” Eames says, afterwards, when they are both panting into the sheets for the second time that morning.

Arthur is feeling loose-limbed and easy, so he gropes along the nightstand for his phone (knocking off a couple of pens in the process) and passes it back to Eames. There is the bleep which signals a photograph being taken and then Eames is leaning forwards, holding the screen out for Arthur to see.

“Here. Look,” Eames says. “I didn’t even smudge it or nothing.”

The picture is, predictably, of Arthur’s ass. Curving over one cheek is a drawing of a grinning cartoon bulldog.

“Because Jay-Z is always watching, innit,” Eames says, his voice deep and sinister. Arthur tries hard to hold back a laugh, but it still comes out as a kind of snort. Eames pulls his hand back, turning the phone’s screen back towards him. “Told you you’d think it was jokes. Now. Which is Dom’s number? He’d love to see this shit.”

That is quite enough to jolt Arthur right back into action.


	2. Mind The Gap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sound of the underground. (WARNING: public sex)

The doors of the tube train cannot open fast enough. Arthur shoves Eames through them carelessly, ‘mind the gap’ be fucked. The other people in the carriage are probably relieved to see the back of them. Nobody wants to be trapped on the tube with a man in a tracksuit who can’t help but pick fights with anyone who looks the slightest bit snooty.

“How difficult is it?” Arthur snaps, his fingers digging hard into Eames’s arm, “For you to just fucking behave appropriately? This city is full of people who behave like normal human beings. Why can you not follow their example?”

Arthur is not sure that shouting into somebody’s face in the middle of a busy underground platform really constitutes appropriate behaviour, but Arthur is required to put up with Eames’s terrible chaviness on a daily basis now, which makes him a saint and thus exempt from all judgement.

Eames pulls his arm free from Arthur’s grip, almost swinging his elbow into the stomach of a passing businessman.

“Man, that guy on the train was giving you evils,” Eames says.

Arthur stares at him, incredulous. “What? _What_?”

“And if he’s looking wrong at you, then he’s looking wrong at me-”

“What the hell goes on in your head that your thoughts even work like that?” Arthur interrupts.

“And I don’t have people look at me, innit,” Eames finishes, jabbing a finger at Arthur’s chest.

There is a large space around them now, where the commuters have backed away for their own safety, and are doing their best to pretend that Arthur and Eames are invisible. It is a trick that most Londoners have perfected over the years.

“Looks never hurt anyone,” Arthur snaps.

“You don’t know a fucking thing, do you?” Eames says, with a laugh. His sneakers squeak against the platform as he steps forwards, close enough to make Arthur tense. “Don’t you got no respect for yourself?”

“First of all, it’s ‘any’ respect, okay? Not ‘no’ respect. In fact, your entire sentence makes no sense, so you can just scrap the whole fucking thing.” Arthur says. His temper is long past its sell-by. Eames smirks at him, shaking his head.

“Alright, yeah, city boy. Bring it,” he says.

“And second of all. No, I clearly don’t have any respect for myself because I’m spending all of my time slumming around London with you when I should be working and being important, so thank you for bringing this problem to my attention so that I can put a swift and immediate end to it.”

Arthur shouts this over the noise of the next approaching train. The rush of air which comes buffeting down the tunnel makes the back of Arthur’s jacket billow as he turns on his heel and shoves his way through the crowd, towards one of the archways which lead off the platform.

“No way, man, fuck that,” Arthur hears Eames say behind him, and he does not even make it all the way through the archway before Eames is seizing him around the waist and spinning him around.

“Unhand me,” Arthur says, and instantly wishes that he had said those words in a tone of irony, but it is already too late for that.

Eames has an arm braced against the wall on either side of Arthur’s shoulders. They’re blocking the whole archway, but there are other exits. People see that this one is occupied and walk on by.

When Arthur pushes against Eames’s arms, he feels nothing but rock hard muscle, which will not be budged. Arthur glares for all he is worth.

“I’ll kick you in the fucking nuts if you don’t step off,” he says, through gritted teeth. He is already half-hard from Eames’s proximity alone.

Eames doesn’t say anything. He just swoops forwards and presses his mouth against Arthur’s. His lips are warm and soft. Arthur’s instinct is to kiss back, but he fights it, jerking his head to one side, out of reach. He stretches up and snatches the stupid checked cap off of Eames’s head and throws it aside, back onto the platform.

“Nice try, pengting,” Eames says, and kisses him again.

Arthur makes an angry sound at the back of his throat, but that is about all the resistance he can muster, because his fingers have somehow become caught at the back of Eames’s neck and his thigh has slid accidentally between Eames’s. Arthur does not even notice that he has started to kiss back until he realises that he needs to stop to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” Eames says. He brushes his mouth against Arthur’s throat in a graceless sweep of stubble and teeth. “I just didn’t like him looking at you, you get me? They made me take them anger management sessions at school for doing shit like that. Didn’t work though.”

“That’s okay,” Arthur says rolling his hips to get the friction right, closing his eyes so that he can forget they’re still in public. “My school made me take those too. They didn’t work for me either.” He licks at Eames jaw and sweeps his hands down Eames’s broad back, squeezing his Addidas-clad ass and pulling him closer, to better conceal their motions.

Eames groans and drops his forehead onto Arthur’s shoulder, his grip slipping a little against the glossy tile of the archway. He moves a hand to Arthur’s waist, to steady himself. Eames is panting against Arthur’s neck now, and making the abortive little thrusts of his hips which mean he is about come. Arthur wishes he did not have such information already ingrained in his memory, but Arthur is a natural cataloguer.

“I can’t believe that you’re going to make me come in the middle of a filthy, fucking tube station,” Arthur says, digging his fingers hard into Eames’s ass. He can feel the warm gust of air which signals another approaching train, the echoing rattle which pounds like a heartbeat.

Eames lifts his head from Arthur’s shoulder. It obviously takes some effort from the way that his chest is heaving. He puts his mouth right against Arthur’s ear as the rattle grows to a roar and says, “When is you gonna admit that you is just as rough as me deep down? Only difference is you need somebody else to fuck it out of you. And I am bare good at that, innit.”

“Innit though,” Arthur gasps, and then he is coming, shuddering, in Eames’s arms as a trainload full of people pour out onto the platform and trail past their archway, avoiding looking too hard.

As the train moves away again, thundering back into the darkness, Eames smoothes a thumb over Arthur’s cheekbone. 

He says, “I like that neither of us can be managed. That’s sick.”

Arthur kisses Eames’s cheek, quickly, before he can check the impulse.

“Let’s go,” he says, pushing Eames away from him and tugging the knot of his tie back into shape. “I’ll buy you a less ugly hat,” Arthur adds, as they step out of their archway.


	3. Run This Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jay-Z is The Boss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during the night Eames sends Arthur away with Jay-Z, after the argument at Eames's flat.

They sit at the kitchen table, amongst the stacked piles of their work. Dom has two fingers of scotch idling over ice, while Arthur is struggling to drink his way through an entire pint of water to balance out the alcohol already in his system.

“All couples fight,” Dom says, as he watches Arthur gasp for air and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He reaches out to steady the pint glass as Arthur sets it clumsily down on the table.

“Eames and I aren’t a fucking couple, Okay? That’s not what I-” Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, against a fresh wave of nausea. When he opens them again, Dom is staring at him, so he says, “I’m just not sure what we’re supposed to do about the dog.”

They both turn to stare at Jay-Z, who is panting up at them from the floor.

After a moment, Dom says, “Should we feed it?”

They don’t keep the house well-stocked. They go to one of the small, overpriced convenience stores in the neighbourhood every couple of days and fill a basket with impulse buys, half of which sit in the refrigerator until they pass their expiry date, because Dom and Arthur are too busy working and ordering takeout to actually cook the stuff.

Arthur stands in front of the open refrigerator and pulls out a cellophane-covered packet. “Could we give him salmon?”

“No. He’s a dog. Fish is for cats,” Dom scoffs, peering over Arthur’s shoulder. “Can dogs eat fish?”

“I don’t know. I’m still drunk. I couldn’t even tell you if I’m fucking standing straight or not.”

Arthur must say this quite loudly, because Dom makes a shushing noise and says in patronising tones, “Alright. We’ll give him the salmon.”

“No, no,” Arthur says. “I don’t want to do it wrong. We’ll give him this.” He shoves the salmon back into the fridge and pulls out steak instead, tearing into the wrapping. Dom makes a noise of protest, so Arthur looks back at him and says, “What?”

“Nothing. Go ahead.”

Arthur’s eyes fall on the knife block on the counter. He concentrates hard on getting his unsteady fingers wrapped around the handle of the largest knife, but when he tries to pull it out of the block, it seems stuck. Arthur scowls and tugs harder, before he realises that Dom has hold of his wrist, preventing him from pulling out the knife.

“You’ll take your fingers off. I’ll do it.”

“I’m not incompetent,” Arthur says. He starts trying to twist out of Dom’s grasp, but when he looks up, in the hope of incapacitating Dom with the force of a glare, Arthur finds his that his vision is tilting drunkenly to one side as he tries to focus.

“Yeah. Okay,” Arthur says.

Dom lets him go and Arthur slumps back down at the table as Dom begins hacking the steak to pieces. There are still no new messages on Arthur’s phone. He keeps on checking. But there’s nothing.

“I’m such a fucking dick,” Arthur says.

“Well,” Dom says, pushing the chopped steak onto a plate.

“I’ll do that part.” Arthur holds out his hand for the plate. Dom gives it to him and Arthur bends down very carefully, to put it in front of Jay-Z. He has to grip the countertop to keep himself steady as he does so. Dom squats down beside him, and they watch the dog push his face into the £20/kilo meat, his stumpy tail wagging furiously.

“Good boy, Jay-Z,” Arthur says, patting the dog’s muscular back.

There is a pause, and then Dom says, “What did you just call it?”

Arthur scowls.

“Eames is looking after him for a friend, okay? Eames didn’t fucking name him. Also, he’s a ‘he’, not an ‘it’.”

“Sorry,” Dom says.

“Jay-Z and I accept your apology.”

“What does he sleep on?” Dom asks.

“At Eames’s he sleeps on the bed.”

“With you?”

“Don’t judge me,” Arthur says.

Dom drags one hand over his face. “Oh, Arthur. It’s far too late for that.”

Arthur turns to glower at Dom so suddenly that he nearly loses his balance and has to reach up and grab the countertop again.

“Don’t forget that I saw you right before your wedding,” he says. “I saw you puke in the back of a limo because you were so fucking nervous, and did I judge you? No. I gave you breath mints.”

Dom holds up his hands. “Alright. Maybe we can put down some towels or something and he can sleep in here.”

Dom gets a pile of towels from the linen closet, and they spend about ten minutes constructing a kind of nest in the corner of the kitchen. Jay-Z watches them in curiosity, although he seems unimpressed by the fruits of their labour.

When they turn out the lights and try to leave the room, Jay-Z rushes forwards and wedges his body into the gap left by the half-closed door, wriggling his hips, trying to force his way through.

“No. Bad Jay-Z,” Arthur says, without force, as Dom lets go of the door handle and the dog pushes triumphantly into the hallway, his pink tongue dangling from his grinning mouth.

Dom looks at Arthur. “I guess he has had a traumatic night,” he says.

Arthur is tired and drunk and he knows when to pick his battles, and soon, Jay-Z is sniffing around Arthur’s bedroom as Arthur props himself up in the doorway, to say goodnight to Dom.

“I’ll wake you in the morning. Check that you’re in a state to meet Ferguson,” Dom says.

“Oh, fuck.” Arthur turns to press his forehead against the doorframe. Dom smirks and claps him on the shoulder.

“Sleep it off. You’ll be fine,” he says.

Arthur climbs into bed and Jay-Z hops up after him, apparently not concerned by the unfamiliar surroundings.

“Be careful with your feet,” Arthur says, smoothing the covers where Jay-Z’s claws have rumpled them. “These sheets have a very high thread count and I’m the one who’ll have to live with it if you mess them up.”

Jay-Z makes a grumbling, doggy noise in response.

“That’s right,” Arthur says. “I’m glad we understand one another.”

The dog turns in circles and then flops down against Arthur’s thigh. He nudges his wrinkled head against Arthur’s hand, swiping his tongue against the fingers, until Arthur gives in and pets him.

Most of Jay-Z’s coat is wiry, but his ears are softer, like little flaps of silk. Arthur pushes one of them back, and leans close, as though he is whispering a secret. He says, “You’re my hostage. He’ll have to come after you sooner or later.”

Arthur’s head is already beginning to throb with the first signs of a hangover headache, so he turns out the lamp and falls into a restless, alcohol-muddled sleep.

All night, he dreams that Eames’s body is weighing down the mattress springs beside him.


	4. Made For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (WARNING: fisting) No plot. Just fisting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the direct result of peer pressure and too much wine. Originally written entirely in pink marker pen at 2am.

Eames looms above him, all of his weight supported by just one bulging arm. Arthur props himself up on his elbows, bringing their faces close in challenge. “I can take it. I told you. I’ve done before.”

The slick sound of Eames’s tongue running over his teeth is enough to send sparks of arousal prickling across Arthur’s skin. Eames’s nails are digging into Arthur’s hip, hard with jealousy, as he says, “Hate the thought of anyone else touching you that way. Makes me want to fuckin’ mash shit up.”

Arthur kisses to soothe, cupping his hands around Eames’s stubbly jaw, biting at Eames’s full lower lip. He draws Eames close, running his touch over the muscular ridges of Eames’s back, so familiar now beneath his hands.

“I’m sure you can make me forget I ever did it before. You’ll blow the motherfucking roof off,” Arthur says and can feel the laughter rumble through Eames’s chest.

Eames’s eyelashes are long and they flutter as Arthur presses the back of one hand to Eames’s cheek. There’s a long inhale of breath, and then Eames is taking that hand and turning his head to kiss Arthur’s palm, his wrist - where the pulse thuds - down to the soft crook of Arthur’s elbow, and then back up again to cover Arthur’s mouth and muffle Arthur’s sounds.

As two fingers push inside him, Arthur arches predictably into the touch and Eames’s other hand is already there, splayed at the small of Arthur’s back to cradle his weight.

Eames’s fingers are dripping wet with lube and Arthur’s muscles are pliant from the sound fucking of the previous round. But even without that, there is something about Eames’s rough touch which just makes Arthur open up and peel apart. It is so easy for Eames to work him that way.

Three fingers and the swell of knuckles and Arthur is already aching for more, squirming under Eames’s hands. He drags his heels against the Egyptian cotton of the sheets, curling his toes and tilting his hips to get a more comfortable angle. His ankle knocks against the reassuring solidity of Eames’s calf, and-

“Wait. Just wait a second,” Arthur pants. It’s been a long time since he was brave enough to try to take a fist and the nerves are beginning to creep in. Arthur clenches and relaxes around the thick fingers inside of him, readying himself for more. He sucks in a breath and plants his feet more firmly, trying to swallow down on his apprehension.

“Goodness. I thought you said you’d done this before, darling.” Eames slips on his posh accent as he strokes his fingers soothingly into the mess of Arthur’s ass. Arthur exhales his breath slowly.

“Fuck you. Okay, go. And you better make this sick.”

“Wouldn’t know how else to make it, pengting. Not with you,” Eames says, with a glint of crooked teeth. He leans forwards, pressing a loose kiss to the corner of Arthur’s eyebrow, scissoring his fingers experimentally and then uses the slack curl of Arthur’s pleasure to press in a fourth.

The stretch is already delicious, tight and hard, but when Eames’s fingers twist, nudging into Arthur’s prostate, it sends bursts of pleasure slamming behind Arthur’s eyeballs. It makes him just loose enough for the final slow push of Eames’s whole fist.

And Arthur can feel it all of it. He can feel each knuckle pressing him to his limits and for a moment he thinks it’s too much, can’t think at all.

It hurts more than Arthur remembers, but when he opens his eyes, he sees Eames staring down at the wet stretch of Arthur’s muscle around his wrist, mouth hanging open in amazement. Eames’s other hand is curled around his own cock, pumping loosely, and Arthur can see  the fat head of it, swollen, red, nudging into the rippled muscle of Eames’s stomach. Just looking at it makes Arthur hungry, makes his dick twitch and that desperate clench of rising blood is already turning the dull pain into something else.

Then Eames is twisting his wrist, shifting the pressure inside Arthur’s body, choking on all of his words as he says, “Oh, Arthur. Fuck. Look at you take it. You’re fuckin’ made for this, pengting.”

“Made for you,” Arthur gasps.

All he needs is the clumsy brush of a hand against his straining cock before the orgasm comes pounding through Arthur’s veins, making him scream, everything too tight, too painful, too good.

Their bodies are sticky with come and Arthur has his face tossed sideways into the damp pillows as Eames is crawling up his still quivering body, sinking his tongue into Arthur’s breathless mouth. He is brushing Arthur’s sweaty hair back from his face and in that instant of delirium, Arthur loves so hard that it makes his chest ache.


	5. Gangsta Wifey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First time barebacking was requested. And I am easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place at some point not long before Eames takes Arthur to that club to meet his mates.

“Shit,” Eames says, as he tosses aside the empty, useless box of condoms. “Thought I had more of them, innit. Don’t normally go through them this fast, you get me? You’re runnin’ me ragged here, pengting.”

“Are you calling me a slag?” Arthur asks, as Eames’s mouth presses against his throat.

“Yeah. As it happens, I am. Do you got a spare johnny in one of them tight little trouser pockets of yours?”

Arthur sighs, tipping his head back against the pillows.

“No. We went through all of mine, too. I haven’t been to the drug store for more yet.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“In the shit.”

Eames runs a fingertip around Arthur’s slick, loosened hole. “Man. You’re all dressed up with no place to go.” He presses one finger back in, though it does not reach deep enough, and Arthur groans at the knowledge that this might be all he gets tonight.

“I can jerk you off,” he says, with resignation.

But then Eames is pulling his fingers away again and leaning across Arthur’s body to scramble around with the drawers of the bedside cabinet. Arthur is aching-hard and ready and Eames’s heavy weight against his chest is doing nothing to help the situation.

“The least you can do is give me your fingers, since you can’t keep your supplies in stock,” Arthur says.

When Eames swings back up again, he is clutching a sheet of paper, which he hands to Arthur. It is a clean bill of health from a local NHS surgery, the results dated two weeks ago.

The significance of that makes Arthur’s stomach tighten.

“Did this come out of your forgery drawer?” he asks, in an attempt to downplay the moment.

“Went down the clinic,” Eames mutters, not meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I wasn’t expectin’ nothin’ from you, you get me? It weren’t like that. Just seemed like the right thing to do, innit.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says, because he isn’t quite sure what else to say. Eames licks his lips and looks at him.

“When were you last cleared?”

“Before we came to London. I haven’t done anything unsafe since then, but I can’t prove that to you.” One stray eyelash is stuck to the top of Eames’s cheekbone, and Arthur uses his thumb, to wipe it away. “Now I feel like a dick,” he says, and he really does. Getting himself checked out for Eames hadn’t even crossed his mind because not for a moment had he considered that things between them might get this far.

In fact, Arthur has never gotten to this point with anyone before.

Now, he runs his fingers up and down Eames’s ribs, apologetic, and feels a surprising rush of affection when Eames smiles at him crookedly and says, “Man, I ain’t deluded. I already knew you was a dick.”

Arthur’s knees are still bent up and Eames settles between them, holding himself up with one arm. Their tongues slide together, easy and languid, because there’s no rush anymore; they are no longer powering through towards hardcore fucking.

At least, that’s what Arthur assumes, until he feels a blunt nudge against his opening – the wet head Eames’s bare cock.

Instantly, Arthur breaks their kiss to say that it’s okay, that he doesn’t expect Eames to take any risks, but he only gets as far as Eames’s name, before Eames is shoving forwards and sliding into him anyway.

Arthur arches into the sensation of a naked cock filling him up. The intimacy of it hits him in a way that he would never have expected, and when he looks up, he finds Eames staring down at him, watching his face.

Arthur meets that gaze and holds it.

This isn’t like normal. Each thrust is slow and sinks Eames deep into Arthur’s body and Arthur can feel himself responding to the controlled intensity of those movements.

Eames is curling his hips, brushing again and again over the spot which makes Arthur’s mind blank out. He does not look away, and Arthur struggles to do the same, even when he’s so close that each of his breaths is coming with a desperate little noise and his thighs are beginning to quiver against Eames’s sides.

It means that Arthur notices for the first time the way that the corners of Eames’s eyes go all tight and the way that his eyelashes flicker as he is straining to hold himself back.

“I’m-” he warns, but he doesn’t need to, because Arthur already knows. He slides a hand to the back of Eames’s neck and tugs his face closer.

“Yes,” Arthur says, “I want to feel it.”

As Eames rolls forwards again, with a groan, Arthur tightens his thighs against Eames’s body, holding him in, until he is clenching around the wet spill of Eames’s come. He is not expecting to feel it as distinctly as he does - the hot pulses of liquid deep inside of him – and the shock of new sensation has Arthur coming hard and gasping, pressing his fingertips against the back of Eames’s neck and the trembling flesh of his braced arm.

Afterwards, Arthur does not want Eames to let him go, or slide free, so he clings on for as long as he can, letting Eames nuzzle against him.

“You is a proper gangsta wifey now,” Eames tells him.

“Good,” Arthur says, drawing Eames down for another kiss.


End file.
